Sunday, 10 December 2006

The story so far. Master Right and I are jet lagged. Our travelling companions--Senna and her girlfriend, the Goddess of Love--are on the rocks. Middle America just snubbed us at a gay B&B. We're standing in line at Dollywood, in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. I have a boner the size of Frankfurt Airport. Just threw in that last bit to see if you were paying attention. But it was true. Why do the most sexless situations (church, elevators, flossing your teeth, K-Mart) make you horny?

Dolly keeps a low profile at Dollywood. No wonder. I mean, look at the woman and do the semiotic math. Everything about her screams sex. The pouty lips. The hussy hairdo. The left breast. The right breast. (I had to write it that way because they won't fit in the same sentence.)

To please a theme-park clientele, Dolly took her image to the vet and gave it the snip. Dollywood is neutered.

Nothing to remind an uptight middle-class Christian of the mess, indignity, and wicked pleasure in trying to make babies. Even the signs which warn pregnant women off the roller coasters, rather demurely, show a stork. By coincidence, I chose to wear a T-Shirt that day which made a rather different point. It earned me the odd double-take.

We were the only people in the park that day bold enough, or or perhaps thin enough, to display our secondary sexual characteristics. By the way, Senna and the Goddess have some hum-dinger secondary sexual characteristics.

The sign for the Smoky Mountain River Rampage drew attention to one key fact. You WILL get wet!, it warned us. Certain parts could get wetter than others, the Master and I felt, and nearly excused ourselves to a private spot before the line started to move.

The theory behind the Smoky Mountain River Rampage. Photo taken near the Talullah Inn.

To enjoy the River Rampage, guests sit in a circular tub that floats on inner tubes. The inner tubes then whiz uncontrollably down a rapids, to the thrill and merriment of all concerned. You will get wet! We shared our tub with a clean-cut young father, who had dressed his toddler daughter in a bathing suit and floatation devices.

An over-cautious first-time parent? Nope. The ride soaked us to the skin. As we came to a stop, I turned to the young father. "Does your daughter speak English yet?" I asked him, quietly.

"She's learned a few words," he replied, a little confused. "Why do you ask?"

"Because it means I can't shout holy motherfucking Christ that water's cold! at the top of my lungs."

"Be careful how you use the Lord's name. Rapture's almost here. And you can lose the shirt. God bless. " He smiled and took his leave.

The Goddess announced: "My panties are all wet, and not in a good way." This provoked another exchange of meaningful glances between the girls.

If you had tuned in to their vibe, you'd have picked up quite a few snippets of low-level tension. Right and I were oblivious, too excited at our next stop. Some real gospel music.

Do you find men singing sexy? Singing together celebrates balls; the energy and gusto they give not just to our voices, but to our hearts and souls. For me, hearing a male chorus is like pouring myself a hearty cup of steaming, fresh testosterone. And dipping a doughnut in it.

If I closed my eyes, I could just about get that effect from the Kingdom Heirs. They billed themselves as a barbershop quartet who sang gospel. It took me a while to work ou that they were Heirs to the Kingdom of Heaven.

"Mmmm...barbershops...regular-guy manliness!" I thought. But when they stepped out on stage, feh.

Geldings, the lot of them. Senna summed it up best. "Those outfits belong behind the counter at Jiffy Lube."

"Did she just say lube?" asked Master Right, hornily.

Don't get me wrong. These fellows were exceptional. Perfect vocal craftsmen. But for guys singing spirituals, maybe they lacked a little in the soul department. But what does an atheist like me know about souls?

The audience didn't seem to mind. The Kingdom Heirs kept them rapt for over an hour. And I must say, they won me over as well, in the end. That is, they won me over as a fan, not as a convert.

We spent the rest of the day noticing Freudian slips and double entendres, especially in the religious artefacts shop.

We drove straight back to Greensboro that evening. Master Right and I spent the night pumping out our sexual frustration. Apparently, Senna and the Goddess stayed up to the wee hours in the kind of tense emotional discussions which men have no patience for. By the morning, our favourite lesbians had decided to move on. Of course, they were too polite to show it.

Well, maybe it showed a little. Senna invited her ex-boyfriend to dine with us that evening.

P.S. I'm not entirely sure that one is allowed to publish photos of performances within the park on a website. If the Kingdom Heirs wish for me to delete their likenesses, please let me know. Same goes for that charming pic of Dolly at the top, sourced from the Dollywood website.

über me

Teaching the Germans to party since 2007. No, not that party.The Honourable Husband proudly proclaims himself to be stateless, rootless, godless and gay. A fiftyish American-Australian chap, recently posted from New York to Munich. He and his Japanese partner regularly discover new reasons to think the other odd.

The Husband's Most Honourable

Is Hitler Funny?Nowadays, it seems history's most notorious demon has become everyone's favourite buffoon. An essay-length post asks if this is a healthy change.

My Favourite BlasphemyThose virgins were really pissed off when I reminded them how little sex they were having.

Resistance is Useful

It's on again! Is someone dicking you around? Is your day filled with petty people tut-tutting you at every turn? Through no fault of your own, do you find yourself marching to someone else's tune? Strike back against the petty tyrants and oxygen thieves. For one day, let them kiss your sweet, fragrant buttcheeks. The Honourable Liberation Front has declared January 13 to be the Fourth Annual International Day to Bite Me. Join the movement, here!

Nach Links

My guide to the homosphere, including the blogs of quality queers. Be gay the Honourable way!

Coming out of the safety of the closet was easier for me than coming out of the mindwarp of the church. This page has plenty for the godless and groovy, including Mojoey's incomparable Atheist Blogroll.

People often ask about life as an expat. The experience is different for everyone. Here, you'll find stories and advice from my favourite modern-day immigrants.

The motto of a certain well-known advertising agency is Truth Well Told. The authors behind this link need no reminder that a well-told truth is powerful. They prove it. Of course, tales well woven, and jokes well cracked earn a berth here, too.

The online world will revolutionise social history. The stories of ordinary people were once hidden. Now, we can share them with the stroke of a key. Many bloggers (such as Neil Kramer and A Free Man) have encouraged their readers to interview each other, share their stories and record them for posterity. Here are the interviews I've participated in.

To Elvis fans, schade.

Sorry to disappoint, but Deutschland über Elvis, is not an Elvis Presley fansite. The title is a pun on the German national anthem, Deutschland uber Alles. Presley fans curious about his G.I. stretch in Germany (1958-1960) should click on the photo above and buy
The Ultimate Elvis in Munich, by Andreas Roth. The book contains some extraordinary photos, and the story of a rumoured Munich mistress.

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Bookage

Ayn Rand: Atlas Shrugged (Penguin Modern Classics)A user called Theta9 on LibraryThing summed it up. "There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year-old’s life: The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world. The other, of course, involves orcs."

Helen Garner: The Spare RoomThe people we love can be infuriating and self-destructive, especially when they're sick. How does a carer continue to care? This tale quietly rips your heart out. Nobody describes the minutiae of every day life with the same clarity and symbolic force which Garner brings.

Rudolph Herzog: Dead Funny: Humor in Hitler's GermanyThe author, son of film-maker Werner Herzog, traces the jokes people told abou the Nazis in order to prove that most people knew the nature of the regime. To me, this slender collection of political humour shows that there simply weren't enough jokes cracked, not that there lots of sly jokes which showed a public spirit of resistance. The funniest and cruellest jokes, ironically, often came from Hitler's victims themselves.

Sean Condon: My 'dam Life: Three Years in Holland (Lonely Planet Journeys)Sean has an ear for the cadences of modern, media-warped speech. He has a heart for the subtle humiliations which life deals out to the ordinary bloke, and he retalliates by humiliating the famous in return. A genuine, new, and distinctive voice in literature. He's also a pal, so buy his books. A lot.

Bill Wasik: And Then There's ThisBoy, have I had it with Tipping Points, Flat Worlds, and anything 2.0. So imagine my delight when one of these so-called business books turns out to be a gem. Wasik is a gentleman adventurer in the world of new media. An amateur pundit with a day job as a rock journalist, he dips a toe in the water of viral culture every so often, and manages to beat the pros. He was, after all, the man who invented the flash-mob. Name one other writer on cyberculture who starts his book by quoting John Stuart Mill. That's class.

Thomas Doherty: Pre-Code Hollywood: Sex, Immorality, and Insurrection in American Cinema, 1930-1934 (Film and Culture Series)It was six years between the birth of the talkies and the enactment of the draconian MPAA Production Code in 1934. But in those few short years, Hollywood relased some of the most subversive, racy and cynical movies it would ever make. The parallels with our own time, as the forces of censorship stir again, are frightening. the cover shows ten items which the Production Code would never allow. Among them, an inner thigh, wickedness unpunished, drug use, consumption of alcohol that is not essential to the plot and the mockery of religion. I ask you: what's left that's worth making movies about?

P.J. O'Rourke: Republican Party ReptileO' Rourke says he's a Republican, but he appears on NPR. A (political) party animal. His viewpoints, in large measure, suck. But I bet he mixes a mean Gimlet.

Mary Karr: The Liars ClubLike Nick Flynn, another poet tells her tale of childhood neglect and abuse. The portrait she paints of her star-crossed parents, held together by lust and divided my tragedy, will bring you to tears.

Nick Flynn: Another Bullshit Night in Suck City: A MemoirHow does it affect your soul, if you're working in a homeless shelter, and your dad checks in? And you have to throw him out for bad behaviour? A gut-wrenching tale of family dysfunction, emotional torture, and (yes) vanity. Flynn is a poet, and he tells his tale in a way that's morbidly beautiful.

Muriel Spark: The Prime of Miss Jean BrodieThe relationship between a gifted student and a truly inspiring teacher is an intimate one. So intimate, the student and teacher can resemble two lovers, with their intrigues, passions, and potential for betrayal. Spark's cool, detatched style is at odds with the simmering emotion that runs through this tale of adolescent self-discovery. It makes her story all the more heartbreaking. A masterpiece.

Mark Leyner: My Cousin, My GastroenterologistDali once described surrealism as the chance meeting of a fish and an anvil on an ironing board. As a modern surrealist, Leyner provides plenty of anvils, but the fish are somehow missing. A dozen eskimos in bowler hats have just rung the doorbell, and I must get my llama to make them hot fudge sundaes. Do I make myself clear?

Dana Thomas: Deluxe: How Luxury Lost Its LusterA staggeringly well-written book from a former Washington Post fashion correspondent. The many hundreds of billions of dollars which passes through the hands of the luxury goods industry has not trickled-down to the people who actually do the work. Once proud brands tarnish their reputations by badge-engineering. A merciless expose of luxury marketing, but one which respects the artisanal ideals which spawned the industry in the first place.

Gore Vidal: Myra Breckinridge & MyronToday, Vidal concentrates on scathing essays and scandalous memoir. But you'll find his best work in his early satires. Myra Breckenridge tells the story of a ball-busting post-op transexual woman who wreaks revenge on the millieu of B-list celebs and wannabes who spurned her as a man. This short book carries not an ounce of fat; every word packs a punch. It is, without doubt, his masterpiece. The sequel, Myron, runs longer, and is just a little too aware of its own cleverness. Irritated at a Supreme Court decision on censorship, Vidal replaces each of the proscribed nine dirty words with the names of the Justices themselves. Oddly, the judges all seem to sport names which suit the purpose. I am especially fond of the name for a vulgarity which refers to the female genitalia; Justice Whizzer White.

Michael Heyward: The Ern Malley AffairThis is so post-modern, it makes your head spin. In 1940s Australia, two would-be poets Harold Stewart and James McAuley grew tired of rejections from avant-garde literary journals. As a lark, the two composed what they thought was were silly parodies of the prevailing modernist school, and submitted them under an assumed name to Angry Penguins, a new journal published by the Adelaide dandy Max Harris. Harris said they were brilliant. The (real) authors revealed that the poems were frauds. Or were they still brilliant, even if the poets responsible never intended them to be? A fascinating artistic morality tale, which still stirs arguments in Australian academic circles.

Robert Whiting: You Gotta Have WA (Vintage Departures)Prospective expats often ask me for tips on doing business in Japan. This book, which tells the story of American baseball players recruited to Japanese clubs in the eighties, proved the single most useful guide to how a Japanese organisation works. Richard Whiting is a sportswriter who has spent most of his career in Japan, and carved a niche for himself explaining the curiosities of Japanese team sports. Check out his most famous work, The Chrysanthemum and the Bat.

Alice Miller: The Body Never Lies: The Lingering Effects of Cruel ParentingI have suffered through endless therapy sessions, support groups, and self-help books which proclaim the abused must forgive their oppressors in order to find peace. Alice Miller calls bullshit on this quatsch, and shows that victims make better progress if they do NOT forgive their abusers. I concur.